


Arthur's Adventure

by azriona



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: But feel free to wear those goggles, Gen, RPF, The Great Game, Time Travel, in a manner of speaking anyway, not actually slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 21:49:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a pleasant day for a walk in Regent’s Park, and Arthur Conan Doyle has no intentions of doing anything unusual when he comes across a strange blue police box….</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arthur's Adventure

**Author's Note:**

> Written for angel-of-deduction in the Sherlock Secret Santa exchange on Tumblr. I noticed you post a lot of Doctor Who, and then my husband helpfully pointed out that Eleven doesn’t go to modern-day London so much anymore – but he does seem to wander around Victorian London an awful lot these days. I hope you like it!
> 
> Thanks to mistyzeo and earlgreytea68 for the lightning-quick beta. I added a couple of chunks in after they saw it, so any further errors are all mine.

The day was surprisingly pleasant, though it had begun with the fog curling around the lampposts, and what sky appeared was overcast and grey. It was now warm and breezy enough that Arthur had decided to extend his walk through Regent’s Park, to admire the flowers and the trees, and listen to the children as they played along the walking paths. Perhaps to plot out his next story in the sunshine, away from the confining walls of his surgery, with all the glass bottles and jars and the reminder that there were people who pressed upon him for more important ventures. 

The stories were only an escape, really. And it wasn’t as if he had any luck in selling them. “Sensationalistic tales of woe from the masses,” said one editor. “Give us an interesting character with an interesting experience,” said another. “Someone the public might actually want to hear about.” 

It was most vexing. Arthur had no idea how one created an interesting character, and he was long since tired of anyone he actually knew. 

But there were children shouting in a game near the pond, and the sun was becoming quite hot now. Arthur scanned the path, hoping for a convenient bench under the shade of a tree, where he might sit and rest and stretch his legs a little, and ponder how exactly one went about creating an interesting character with interesting experiences. 

No bench under the trees, but there was something – a booth of some sort. Perhaps selling ices or at least something wet to drink. Arthur picked up the pace, swinging his cane, and approached the tall blue box. It was quite a handsome box, really, and a most captivating shade of blue, with what looked like a yellow lamp set on top, but no windows or advertisements for what it might sell. Arthur approached, curious, and had to circle the entire small booth twice before he noticed the lettering. 

_Police Call Box; Free for use of Public; Pull to Open_

Arthur stood, staring at the box, flexing his hand on his cane and wondering. It was most curious. He couldn’t recall seeing the box before, though he did not walk Regent’s Park terribly often. Perhaps it was new. And what, pray tell, was a police call box, anyway? 

But “pull to open”. That might answer some questions. 

Arthur pulled the door, and went in. 

And then came back out, moustache twitching. 

“Heavens,” he said, rather faintly, because…well….heavens, indeed. 

And without further pause or consideration, went back in, and let the door shut behind him. 

* 

It wasn’t very long after that a thin, lanky young man with a tweed coat and bow tie came striding out of the nearby copse of trees. The clothes were entirely wrong for an afternoon’s walk in Regent’s Park, particularly in 1885, but this did not seem to bother the young man, who would have looked no less absurd had he been wearing a fez, which in fact might have completed the outfit. 

The young man strode purposefully up to the very strange blue box, as if he fully expected it to be there. He opened the door without a single pause, went inside, and closed the door firmly behind him. 

There was a strange cranking, whirring, creaking sound a few moments later, a bit like a set of gears that were aching for a drop of lubricant and had been for years. A brisk wind rustled the leaves in the nearby trees, and made the grass surrounding the box shiver in anticipation. 

And then, as if it happened every day – the box, and everything it had inside of it – disappeared. 

With Arthur Conan Doyle in it. 

* 

It was a most confusing mystery, how a box could be bigger on the inside, and Arthur thought it was the most splendid adventure of his life. He roamed the corridors, poking his head into the rooms, having long since given up trying to imagine what he might find next. Already, he’d located a wardrobe, a swimming pool, a library, scores of bedrooms in every color imaginable (including one that was zebra-striped), a garden, a seaside resort, a Turkish bath, and one room that resembled a dozen bridges over a deep abyss. There were rooms that were empty, and rooms that were full, and rooms that contained only one or two things, and rooms that he couldn’t even view. Rooms with mirrors and rooms with chairs and rooms with tables and rooms with cabinets and rooms with objects Arthur didn’t recognize (those rooms were in abundance). 

And sometimes Arthur heard laughter down the halls, and sometimes he heard sobs, but when he called out, no one ever answered, and Arthur was quite sure he was alone in the (not-so-) little police call box. He certainly had no idea that somewhere, there was another madman in the box, and that the box might have, in the intervening time, moved through time, if not through space. 

Because, after a few hours of wandering about, Arthur found himself back in the first room, with the center console marked with strange runes and lit by an effervescent light. He chuckled, and for some reason, patted the console as he left. 

“Quite a place, quite a place,” he murmured, as if speaking to a host, which was really very ridiculous because he was, of course, alone, and inanimate objects did not have feelings or egos or any need to be reassured that their guests had had a marvelous time. 

Arthur shook his head, still chuckling, and went out the door, pleased to see that the sun was still shining in Regent’s Park, and there were still children shouting in glee near the pond, and he had perhaps spent only an hour exploring the very intriguing little blue box. 

What an adventure! Arthur thought it might make a fine story for the Strand, and he set off down the path to home to write it. 

* 

Arthur hadn’t even left the park before he realized something was very wrong. 

It wasn’t the day, which was just as fine as it had been when Arthur first went into the blue police box two hours previously. Perhaps the air had a different sort of scent to it – less dusty, with the particular bite of horses and humans, and more like a gas fire that had been burning a bit too long. Perhaps it was the strange dress of the gentlemen also taking their walks, who did not wear caps or hats on their heads, and some of whom wore strange, blue trousers with short coats. Some even wore their hair long, like women. 

(And there were no women that Arthur could see, for that matter – apart from the nannies, dressed in the familiar black uniform of nannies the world over, pushing the large black prams that all infants rode in, no matter the season.) 

The laughter of the unseen children remained the same; the squawks of the ducks and the honks of the geese. If the noise of London proper was distant, it was not entirely unfamiliar. 

No, it wasn’t these things that warned Arthur that not everything in the world was quite as it should be. 

It was the large metallic cylinder which flew in the sky above him, arms outstretched and with a mighty _roar_ , as if the world itself was coming to a swift and decisive end brought about by a wrathful and angry alien race. 

Arthur cried out in fear, frozen to the spot, and it was only when the man with the salt-and-pepper hair came to ask if something was wrong that Arthur realized that the strange flying object was passing the park by, and what’s more, _no one else seemed afraid_. In fact, no one else seemed the least bit bothered by the object – it was only Arthur who shook with fright. 

“You all right?” asked the man, concern wrinkling the skin around his eyes. 

“Y-yes,” stammered Arthur, clutching his chest. The man was dressed much like everyone else in the park: an open-collared shirt with stripes, but no tie or ascot. His jacket hung loose on his shoulders, with no waistcoat or cummerbund or anything to hold it in. He looked as if he’d only dressed partially before running out of a burning building, and did not seem the least bit disturbed by his nakedness. 

His younger friend was dressed much the same, and he was the one who spoke next. “Do you feel a tightness in your chest? Is your arm numb?” 

“I’m hardly having a heart attack, sir,” snapped Arthur, and straightened himself. He took a deep breath, suddenly uncertain of his own diagnosis, but his chest remained clear of pain, and he felt better with the additional oxygen in his lungs. “Merely a bit of fright with the silver…but never mind. If you gentlemen saw nothing untoward in the sky above, then it was only a fanciful flight of imagination, or a touch of indigestion on my part. I thank you for your assistance, kind sirs.” 

The two men looked at each other for a moment, and then back to Arthur. 

“D’you mean the aeroplane?” asked the taller one. 

“The what?” asked Arthur. 

“The aeroplane that just flew over,” said the shorter one slowly. “That’s what startled you?” 

“I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re saying, young man,” said Arthur. 

“Right,” said the taller one, a bit slowly. 

“Good day, sirs,” said Arthur, and he set off down the path, hoping the strange men didn’t follow him. 

They did. He could see them, out of the corner of his eye when he turned the corner. Blast. They’d accost him at the door to his flat, or perhaps try to mug him along the way, thinking him addle-brained and a bit dim. He could see them, furtively talking together, their tones too low for him to hear. Surely they were discussing their plan of attack. That wasn’t worry on their brows, but menacing fore-thought. Arthur gripped his cane all the tighter; he could wallop one of them over the head with it, and then sweep the legs out from the other. A simple thing, a matter of moments, and then… 

The noise from the street startled Arthur out of his daydreaming heroics. He looked up, just in time to see the large red bus hurtling down the avenue at breakneck speed. It had come loose from the horses which pulled it, and was racing straight for him, its horn blaring as it approached the point of impact. There was only time enough for Arthur to catch his breath, and notice that the driver of the bus was _inside_ the contraption, and not out. 

Odd. 

But just as quickly as Arthur was facing certain death, he was watching it pass by from the safety of the pavement, where his two attackers/angels had pulled him. Arthur watched the bus lumber past, not slowing down for an instant. 

In fact, despite being without horses, it seemed to speed up. 

“Christ,” the younger man was saying. “Christ on a focking stick.” 

“I say,” said Arthur, but his heart was pounding far too hard to be shocked at the young man’s language. 

“My God, man,” said the older one, “don’t they teach you to look both ways before you cross the street in front of a bus?” 

And then Arthur saw the rest of the carriages on the road. The carriages which were not carriages, precisely, because they were too short, and brightly colored, and strangely shaped, and what’s more, did not have horses. 

None of them had horses. 

He sniffed the air. No horses. And equally more important – no horse shit. 

“Ah,” said Arthur. “Where are the horses?” 

“What horses?” 

“There’s no horses.” Arthur turned to look back at the park, and then around at the sky, and back to the road. “This is Regent’s Park, London?” 

“Yes,” said the older man. The younger man was still bent over at the waist, cursing a blue streak at the pavement. 

“In the year of our Lord 1885?” 

The older man stared at him for a moment. “2010.” 

Arthur stared at him. The man stared back. 

“Ah,” said Arthur. 

The older man took his arm. “Come on, old timer. Let’s find you someplace to sit.” 

Arthur was about to protest – he didn’t need to sit, he needed to think, when the younger man stood up, his cursing at an end. “We should take him to 221B.” 

“John—” 

“Greg, you’re honestly going to send me home to tell Sherlock that I met a man who thinks it’s 1885, and I _didn’t_ bring him home with me? And anyway, if anyone can tell us who this bugger is, it’s Sherlock. I don’t have to be a betting man to tell you that much.” 

The older man – Greg, Arthur assumed – sighed. “Right. You’re right. Fine. Lead the way.” 

“Come on, sir,” said the younger man – John. He was respectful in the same way that Greg had been condescending, and Arthur decided he rather liked him. “They drink tea in 1885, I imagine?” 

“They do indeed, young man.” 

John chuckled. “Well, I know where we can get some. Come on.” 

With a desultory sniff toward Greg, Arthur followed. 

* 

Mr John Watson, formerly Captain John Watson, currently Doctor John Watson, or so Arthur learned as they walked. Whatever his title, he was a friendly sort, and while the Army men Arthur had met in his day tended to be somewhat less talkative, at least this Watson fellow had the same sort of sturdy outlook, sensible nature, and brisk, evenly-spaced footsteps of that breed. Arthur had no doubts on the medical score; the man was clearly putting Arthur through a certain set of paces, trying to determine if he had indeed had a stroke or other ailment of the heart, or perhaps some other health concern which might account for what Watson obviously believed was an aberration from the norm. 

Behind them, the older man came sulking along, clearly not entirely approving of the plan, but not daring to speak out against it, either. Greg? Geoff? George? Arthur couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter, really, he supposed. Mostly, Arthur was curious about the Sherlock fellow they were going to meet. How could anyone actually know where Arthur was meant to be, _who_ he was meant to be, simply by meeting him? _Arthur_ wasn’t even certain where or when or why he was! 

And certainly, the idea of time travel was so preposterous that no intelligent man could actually believe it existed, much less existed in the form of a blue box sitting in Regent’s Park. 

It was a quick walk, no more than a few minutes, and Watson was careful to keep them inside the fence of Regent’s Park as long as possible. Arthur thought that was rather sporting of him, particularly when they at last turned down Baker Street, and were confronted by the rush of the non-carriages with their absent horses. Arthur paused, startled again into remembering he was not in quite the right place, but then carried on as if nothing was amiss. He wanted to see this Sherlock fellow, and that meant not giving the older man any more ideas about where else to take him. 

Baker Street was a bit quieter than the main thoroughfare; little brick houses, all set together, and about halfway down the block, a small café. It was a bit odd-looking, but Arthur recognized the tables outside, the red awning, the counter with foodstuffs and people ordering coffees and sandwiches. 

Watson opened a door next to the café – 221B, Arthur noted – and led them inside. It was dark and somehow much more familiar. Watson looked up the stairs and shouted. 

“Sherlock! Someone here you’d like to meet.” 

There was no answer from above, but the door behind the stairs opened, revealing a small, older woman, dressed in a neat flowered dress that barely skimmed her calves. Apart from the length of her skirt, she looked quite respectable, really. And she was rather long in the tooth for a lady of the night. Arthur, despite his status as a gentleman, had to admit he was intrigued. 

“John, did you run into trouble? You’ve barely been out twenty minutes. Oh, did you find a friend?” 

“Not quite, Mrs H. Has Sherlock gone out?” 

“I don’t think so. Hello, Inspector.” 

“Mrs Hudson,” said the older man, quite respectfully, and Arthur stared at the woman in shock. _Inspector_? A policeman, addressing a prostitute thusly? Impossible! Unheard of! Arthur wanted to know more. 

“Mrs H, I don’t suppose you have any of that shortbread from the other day?” 

“Of course, dear, d’you want me to bring it up?” 

“Yes, please.” 

“I’ll be just a tick, I’m not your housekeeper, remember.” 

Mrs Hudson went back into the rear of the house, and Watson turned back to Arthur with a smile. “As if she’d ever let us forget.” 

“Is she…” began Arthur, and then waved his hands in a manner that any of his compatriots at the club would instantly recognize. Watson and Lestrade, however, seemed to not understand the signals. 

“Landlady,” said Watson. “And excellent baker of biscuits. Come on, let’s see if Sherlock’s in.” 

Watson led the way up the stairs. They creaked pleasantly, which was something reassuring in that Arthur had never met a staircase that _didn’t_ creak; if this one creaked, then surely he wasn’t entirely dreaming, and everything strange that had happened so far was absolutely real. 

Then again, that wasn’t nearly as reassuring as one might think. 

What was reassuring, in the oddest way, was the flat where Watson led him. It wasn’t that anything in it was particularly comforting, but somehow, Arthur felt perfectly at home when he stepped inside. It was a bit dark, like any proper sitting room should be; furniture was wedged into places that shouldn’t have been able to fit it, providing plenty of comfortable places to sit and talk awhile. There was a fire in the grate, a beast’s head on the wall (though adorned with a strange sort of earmuff), and black-and-white wallpaper that was busily familiar. The room was strewn with the debris of people who collected and used and set down and forgot about every item possible to collect and use and set down and forget. A mug with a military crest on it, though Arthur didn’t recognize the regiment. A skull sitting on the mantel, next to a knife holding several envelopes to the wood. A box, tucked away in the bookshelves, seemingly innocuous but one which Arthur recognized to very likely contain a needle and elastic strap, probably well-used. A deerstalker partially shoved under a cushion, a lone Persian slipper forgotten under a chair, a cane leaning in the corner, and books, books, books, all over, in every conceivable location. All in all, Arthur rather liked the little room. It was busy in a way that he recognized, even though his own personal rooms were neat and tidy, kept so by his own housekeeper. 

A pang at the thought of Mrs Turner; he could imagine her so clearly, the frown on her face and the spectacles on the tip of her nose, as she surveyed his simple rooms across town. So tangible that it was difficult to believe that if it really _was_ 2010, Mrs Turner would have been dead for a number of years; his little room was dust-covered and forgotten, assuming it still existed at all. 

“Sherlock!” called Watson, walking purposefully through the flat, peering into a room with a table and sink and some rather large cabinetry, and something that might have been an oven. 

“You all right?” asked Lestrade, standing at Arthur’s elbow. “You look a bit pale.” 

“Yes, very well, thank you,” Arthur began to say, but was interrupted by the third man coming out from the rear of the flat, settling a blue robe around his thin shoulders. His hair was wavy and wild, his eyes were bright and quick. He was thin and wiry and terribly nimble as he stopped dead on the threshold, staring intently at Arthur. Arthur stared back, quite uncertain if he was staring at a hallucination or angel or devil or actual human being. 

But there was Watson, directly behind the man, and looking terribly curious about what would occur next. 

“Oh, now, that’s curious,” said the thin man. “You’re a bit out of time, aren’t you?” 

“Oh, come on,” scoffed Lestrade, and Watson broke into a grin. “Just because we bring you a bloke dressed like he’s from a hundred years ago….” 

“Not like, _is_ ,” insisted the thin man, and he strode toward Arthur, almost predatory in the way his bare feet skimmed the floor, dodging anything that might have become lodged in the arch of his foot. He circled Arthur, examining every inch of him in a strange, almost seductive manner, and Arthur would have been scandalized if it were not for the words which the man spoke as he circled. “The clothes are quite authentic, look at the stitching along the collar and the cut of the sleeves, Lestrade. These were not sewn by any machine built in the last twenty years, and the fabric has little wear to it, so clearly it’s a fairly new suit, not something that has been pulled out of a costume department’s wardrobe recently. And the man himself – the moustache is real, not pasted on, and no one would actually wear facial hair in that style today. In fact, I doubt anyone has worn that style of moustache in public in the last hundred and twenty years, so you’re a bit off on the time estimate. The boots are another clue, as are the fingernails on his hand – a doctor, I should imagine. No wonder you brought him home, John, you felt a certain affinity to him. Like meets like. So you went on a walk with Lestrade in the park and come home not half an hour later with a man you met there, someone who was curious enough that you felt it necessary to bring him to me to determine if he’s telling the truth about being out of time or merely a bit off in the head, and there you are, I’ve told you – he is a native of the year 1886 and there’s your mystery solved and done.” 

“Time travel’s impossible!” snapped Lestrade. 

“Oh, your tiny little minds,” groaned the young man. “The only reason you think it’s impossible is because you haven’t figured out how to do it yet. I dare say our Victorian gentleman would say transporting ideas and speech and pictures across thousands of miles in a single second is impossible, but there’s the telly sitting in the corner to prove him wrong. And though I will grant that time travel remains highly improbable, it is the only remaining logical solution and therefore must be the truth.” 

“Sherlock!” 

“Your ignorance is boring, Lestrade,” said the young man, and with that, he whipped around and collapsed on the couch, back to the rest of them, huddled under his dressing gown and the bottoms of his bare feet curled against them. 

“Marvelous,” said Watson, eyes sparkling, and Arthur realized that the man on the couch had surely come out of his bedroom, and Watson had gone straight in to pull him out. _Scandalous._

“1885,” said Arthur, and the man on the couch went stiff as a board, before twisting about to look at them. 

“What?” 

“The date of my departure was the 14th of March, 1885.” 

The young man sighed with annoyance. “There’s always _something_.” 

“Mr Sherlock,” began Arthur, but the young man had already turned his back to them again. 

“Holmes,” came his voice, a bit muffled by the word being spoken to the couch. “The name is Sherlock _Holmes_.” 

“My apologies, dear fellow,” said Arthur sincerely. 

“Ugh,” said Holmes, giving a violent shiver. “Don’t do that, you remind me of my brother Mycroft.” 

Lestrade interrupted. “So you’ve deduced this bloke is actually from 1885. Care to tell us how he got here?” 

“I suspect he could tell you himself,” said Holmes. “Have you asked him?” 

Silence. 

“Ah,” said Watson, a bit embarrassed now. “Doctor…” 

“Doyle,” said Arthur. “It’s a bit fantastic, I rather don’t understand it myself, though I certainly could tell you how it all occurred. You see, I was taking a walk in Regent’s Park when I came upon a blue box…” 

And so he told them, and as he did, he watched their reactions. 

Lestrade’s face grew more and more incredulous, as if Arthur were describing something so completely preposterous that had it been just the two of them, Arthur would have found himself institutionalized before he could even finish the story. 

Watson remained passive, a true sign of a gentleman indeed, and better still of a doctor who was well used to listening to a patient’s full and total history before making a diagnosis. 

Holmes, on the other hand, rose from his couch to at first a seated position, and then standing, and before Arthur had quite reached the end, had stalked past them all with a wave of his hand, indicating that Arthur should keep speaking, and went into the bedroom. He came out again a moment later, fully dressed, his eyes aflame. 

“John, thank you. I can always depend on you to provide a bit of illuminating entertainment.” 

Watson opened his mouth and then snapped it shut, as if he wasn’t entirely certain what he’d just heard was a compliment or not. Holmes, in the meantime, had taken a long wool coat from the peg on the wall and was settling it onto his shoulders. 

“Well?” he demanded. “Let’s go and see.” 

“A blue box that’s a portal in time?” scoffed Lestrade. “You must be joking.” 

“Sherlock, we were there,” said Watson. “There’s no blue box in Regent’s Park.” 

“Likely hit his head on something,” said Lestrade, with a regretful look at Arthur. “No offense.” 

“None taken, my dear boy,” said Arthur. “I would be tempted to think the same myself. Except it is my head, and I am fairly certain I did not fall.” 

“I’m going,” declared Holmes, and went. After a moment, Arthur followed, with Watson right on his heels. 

Lestrade was a moment later, grumbling all the way. 

* 

The day was still fine, the sun was still shining, and Arthur walked, if not confidently, at least with a little more bravery as he followed Holmes to the gates for Regent’s Park, and went straight in. He couldn’t help the relief he felt to leave the busy and strange city streets behind; the fumes from the strange vehicles on the road were acrid and stale and terrible, and Arthur decided he would never begrudge the fees paid to those who cleaned up after horses again. 

(Nor would he complain about the horses.) 

Holmes did not slow down his pace for a moment; it was only after they entered the park and the noise of the city fell behind them that Arthur realized the man was still talking. He caught up to the younger man in order to better hear him. 

“No, no, of course not, forget I asked that.” 

“Of course,” said Arthur, somewhat bewildered. 

“But what I don’t understand is the method,” continued Holmes, and Arthur realized that Holmes had been talking to him for some moments now – very likely since the moment they had all left the comfortable flat on Baker Street. Arthur had no idea what Holmes was talking about, and yet it didn’t seem to matter, because Holmes didn’t actually stop talking, but instead answered his own questions only to declare himself correct or not, without waiting for any kind of input from Arthur at all. 

It was a most unusual conversation. 

It was only as they approached the area where the blue box ought to be that Arthur began to worry. Watson and Lestrade had not seen it; what if it wasn’t there? What if Arthur really had knocked his head, and his entire life as he recalled it was nothing more than the deluded ramblings of a man suffering from a sort of hallucinatory amnesia? 

What if he really did belong in the strange, alien, fast-paced world of 2010, and not 1885? Strange, glowing glass baubles instead of friendly yellow gas lights; foul-smelling, brightly-colored metal boxes instead of friendly, snuffling horses; a dark haze in the sky instead of the comforting yellow fog coating the ground like a blanket. 

“There,” said Holmes, almost as triumphant as he was satisfied, and Arthur blinked, saw, and smiled. 

“That…that wasn’t there before,” stammered Lestrade. 

“And yet it sits, waiting for us,” said Sherlock, eyes bright. “Come on, let’s take a closer look.” 

Watson caught his arm. “Sherlock – no. We don’t know what it is.” 

“That’s the _point_ , John! A mysterious blue box that takes you from one time to the other merely by stepping inside? Come on! How can you pass this up?” 

“Very easily,” said Watson. “What if it only takes you forward? Dr Doyle went in and it was 1885 – he stepped out two hours later and a hundred and twenty-five years had gone by. You step in there for just a couple of minutes – you might not come out for two or three years!” 

“What’s two or three years compared to the journey of a lifetime!” 

“No! I can’t let you do it.” 

“John,” groaned Holmes, spinning around, frustrated. “Think about it. Logic dictates that a tunnel, having gone in one direction, must go back in the same direction. Dr Doyle here won’t be transported to a future time – it’s not as if time is that flexible, it’ll want to return him to where he came _from_ , and that’s 1885 – and if I’m with him, I could go. Imagine what I could find there!” 

“Murders galore?” supplied Lestrade dryly. “Jack the Ripper? Or the ability to smoke in public again?” 

But Arthur was focused on the first suggestion – mostly because he didn’t quite understand the rest. “Murders, gentlemen?” 

“Crimes,” said Holmes, still staring angrily at Lestrade. “I solve them. For _him_. I’m a consulting detective. The only one in the world.” 

Watson coughed. 

“John helps,” conceded Holmes. 

“Ta for that.” 

“You _write_ about it.” 

“Well, how else would people know to contact you when they need help?” said Watson, clearly not the least bit perturbed by Holmes’s rudeness. “Fine mess you’d leave them in, swanning off to 1885.” 

“Which is why you could come with me,” said Holmes, his eyes brightening again. “It’s not as if there’s anything holding you here, John—” 

“Oi! What about Harry? Or my job?” 

“You could write about my adventures—” 

“Hardly write a blog before electricity.” 

“There’s newspapers.” 

“Don’t be stupid.” 

“Come on, John! It’s an _adventure_.” 

The argument was interrupted by a ringing; for a moment, Arthur thought he really had gone mad, that he was beginning to hear things – and then Lestrade took a small rectangular box from his pocket and glanced at it with a frown. 

“Well, make up your mind,” he said, pocketing the box again. “Murder at Whitehall. Locked room, two dead, no visible weapon. Your favorite, isn’t it? Are you coming?” 

Holmes’s mouth dropped open. “I…” 

“Now or never, Sherlock,” said Lestrade. “But even if that transports you in time, there’s no guarantee you can do both. And they might be soft on the hard drugs back then, but I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t like some of the other things you’d find about the Victorians.” 

Holmes stared at him, eyes wild. He glanced at Arthur, the blue box standing just around the bend, and Watson, whose arms were still folded, his face still bent in a frown. 

“Locked room,” said Holmes slowly, thinking wildly to himself. 

“No weapon,” agreed Lestrade. 

“Two dead,” added Watson. 

That appeared to decide it. Holmes turned to Arthur, and clapped him on the back. “I won’t lie and say the science is sound because I honestly have no idea, but I am very, very clever, and it stands to reason that what brought you here will also return you home. Try to stay out of Whitechapel. Have a nice journey. Pleasure.” 

Holmes patted Arthur’s arm, and was off like a shot, following Lestrade as he strode out of the park. Watson turned to Arthur with a somewhat sheepish smile. 

“Sorry, he’s just…” Watson waved his hand, indicating something that surely would have made sense to a man from 2010. Having seen the familiar blue box, Arthur was feeling a bit more settled with the idea that he was, in fact, from 1885. “Look, I can stay and make sure you get home all right.” 

“You don’t believe it’s true?” asked Arthur. 

Watson shrugged. “No idea. But I live with a man who can tell a pilot from the shape of his thumb; there’s not much I _wouldn’t_ believe.” 

“Ah.” Arthur glanced back at the box. “It truly wasn’t there when you saw me first?” 

“No,” said Watson, and Arthur believed him. 

“Pardon me for asking what may be an intrusive question, dear boy, but…” Arthur paused. “If you were me, would you go back?” 

“You mean travel in time?” 

Arthur nodded. 

Watson seemed to think it over. “I suppose,” he said, thinking, “it would depend on if what I had waiting for me in the past was better than what I had with me in the present.” 

He glanced away – toward the rapidly retreating figures of Lestrade and Holmes, Arthur realized. 

“You needn’t stay, young man,” said Arthur. “If he should need you—” 

Watson chuckled. “He’ll never admit it. But yeah, I should follow him.” He reached out for Arthur’s hand, and Arthur took it, and shook it warmly. 

“Thank you, my good fellow,” said Arthur. “It was truly fascinating.” 

“And if you get home safely, you’ll want to forget it all,” said Watson. 

Arthur released Watson’s hand, and after a brief nod, and quick check that he looked proper, went back to the blue box, which stood silently, waiting. 

A last look at Watson, who was still standing, watching him go, and then Arthur went inside, and closed the door behind him. 

It would be best, though Arthur, to repeat exactly what he had done previously. In reverse order, of course. That would only be logical. 

Which was why, when a few minutes later, the door flew open again to let in the same young man, tweed coat and bow tie and lack of fez, the console room, with its odd runes and lights and bells and whistles, was empty. 

* 

John wanted to call out to the younger man he saw racing into the blue box a few moments after Dr Doyle went in – good God, that was all Doyle needed, to be accosted by a stranger in a small box while trying to travel in time to get home, and wasn’t he the crazy one for actually half believing the story. 

And in fact, John had taken a few steps toward the box, as if to rescue Doyle should he need it, when the most unusual thing happened. 

There was a loud creaking, cranking, whirring sound; the wind blew through all the leaves in the trees, and rustled the grass, whipping around John. And then…the box…disappeared. 

John stared as the noise died away in a lost scream. 

He rubbed the back of his neck. 

“John!” Sherlock, from the edge of the park. “Are you coming or aren’t you? _Double murder, John!_ ” 

“Yeah, yeah, just…” John shook his head, and went. 

* 

Two hours, on the dot, and Arthur stepped out of the blue box to discover himself back in Regent’s Park. Dusk was falling, no one was about, and he stepped outside, trembling just a bit. 

The future, or…the present? 

He walked along the path, passing the spot where only a few hours ago (a hundred years in the future) he stood with Watson and Holmes and Lestrade. He reached the gate where Holmes had passed through, talking as if Arthur could hear. The street was quiet, the buildings were brick. Nothing to tell when he was. 

Until he saw the steaming pile in the center of the road, and down the street, the lamplighter setting to work. 

Arthur smiled, breathing in the scent of dung and gas and the faint scent of fog. He stood for a moment, relishing the knowledge that he was home, and that somewhere, not too far away, Mrs Turner was perhaps preparing tea, with scones and cakes and if he was very fortunate, sausages, and everything that had happened in the last few hours could be safely forgotten as a bad dream. 

Except. 

_Someone interesting_ , the editors had said. 

Hmm. 

Now, _there_ was something to ponder. 

And lost in thought, Arthur set off for home.


End file.
